


And the Living is Easy

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Six Feet Under
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summertime. Beer, pretentiousness, and a camera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Living is Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jae Gecko

 

 

She squints into the setting sun from behind her sunglasses, and reaches into the backpack to pull out another beer. It's not difficult to locate a bottle -- the bag is stuffed full of booze, and little else. Enough to last her well into the night. Or awhile, at least.

She opens the bottle and takes a long swig, the still-sort-of-cool beer a perfect counterpoint to the stifling summer evening.

_Click. Click. Click-click._

'Gorgeous! Oh, that's lovely! You're _faaaab_ -ulous, darling! Yes! _Yes_! Wonderful!'

Keeping her eyes firmly on the ocean view in front of her, she gives Billy the finger, and tries not to smile. He scurries amongst the dry seaweed like an overgrown cockroach, taking her picture from just about every possible angle. She resists the temptation to kick sand at him; if so much as a grain gets on his camera, she'll never hear the end of it.

She waves her bottle lazily at him with one hand, and pats the still-folded towel next to her with the other. 'C'mon, Billy. Grab some towel. Have a beer. You _are_ in Australia, after all -- shouldn't you be living the stereotype while you have the chance?'

'Nah, not tonight.' He affects a self-important air. 'Tonight, art is my drug.'

She snorts. 'Oh, that's deep. You've been waiting for an excuse to use that line all night, haven't you?'

'You just don't understand my _art_! How much I _suffer_ for what I do! How much blood, sweat, and tears go into each and every picture!' He pauses a moment. 'Yeah. Thought it up at lunch.'

 _Click-click. Click._ Billy takes pictures like a man possessed. He's going to give himself RSI in his hand one of these days, she's sure.

The harshness of the light intensifies, yellow to orange, as the sun continues its slow crawl towards the horizon. She can feel her skin burning, feel the heat burrowing down underneath and setting up camp.

She wonders for a brief moment whether to get out the sunscreen, but knows that it's not worth it. She doesn't feel like dealing with the inevitable offer to help her put it on; she's in too good a mood to spoil things over something so petty as potential skin cancer.

_Clickety-click-click._

With the camera in front of his face, he looks like some sort of demented Cyclopean beast, a single enormous bug-eye glimmering beneath wild, crazed hair.

She tells him this. After all, he's not the only one who can wax pretentious, and she's feeling pleasantly inebriated. Her current alcohol-only diet is doing wonders for her state of mind.

He laughs, never once losing concentration. She envies him that. 'I prefer to think of myself as Medusa. Or maybe some sort of reverse Medusa, capturing the essence of everything that _I_ look upon, that one perfect moment.' A pause. 'Actually, I tell a lie. I've never thought of myself as any sort of mythological character.'

'God, we're fucking pathetic, aren't we?' She swats at a bloated fly that rests on her leg.

The sun sets another fraction of a degree, and the empty bottles scattered on the sand around her catch the light, sending back a white-hot glare.

'Whoa. Now, this I have to... wow.'

 _Click-click-clickety_ , and he's at it again, more intense than before. Capturing the essence, as she floats adrift in a small sea of coloured glass. And, if the camera drifts back towards her face every so often, well, she can deal with it. His holiday photo albums are all the same -- new additions to the ongoing _Life of Brenda: A Billy Chenowith Exhibition_. She's had a lifetime to learn how to deal with it.

She fishes out a new beer and closes her eyes, listening to the gentle roar of waves. And that fucking camera. Just because she's had forever to get used to the sound, it doesn't mean she should have to put up with it while she's on vacation.

'Why don't you go build a sandcastle?'

_Click. Click._

'Oh, come on, you know me -- sculpture's not really my thing. Besides, why try to create something, when there's a work of art right in front of me just begging to be displayed to the world?'

'Jesus, Billy.' She rolls her eyes melodramatically, trying not to feel an irrational sort of pleasure. Compliments -- genuine compliments -- are so rare for her, prized possessions that she'll never admit to keeping. They always catch her off guard.

She tries to bring the conversation back to something that doesn't dredge up uncomfortable questions from parts of her mind that she prefers to avoid. 'Why don't you build something, and then take some pictures of it? Art about art. Or something. Or, y'know, at least get some more shots of the scenery, or the old couple who're going for a swim. Or that really gross used condom that must've been lying over there in the seaweed for at least a day.'

'Already tried that.' There's a dull thud as he flops down next to her, lying on his back, spurning his towel in favour of some sand. The clicking of the camera pauses for only a moment, though, before it starts up again.

'Do you really need a picture of my nostrils?'

'No.' _Click._ 'I need several. Hundreds. Infinite numbers.'

She hands him a Cooper's, and he takes it this time, drawing himself up onto one elbow and placing his camera in its case.

'Thanks.'

She draws random swirly doodles in the sand with her finger, punctuated with the occasional violent stabby motion.

'We really should think about how we're getting to Perth. Connor's heading off on some new harebrained scheme in less than a month, and I don't want to miss him.'

'I thought we were going to hitch.'

'God, that is so fucking pedestrian.'

Billy belches. 'Technically, it's the opposite of pedestrian.'

'Unless no-one gives us a lift and we end up walking, in which case it will be entirely pedestrian.'

'Well, if all else fails, we'll get a bus, or something. But come on, you promised a road trip. Just you and me, and sweaty truck drivers out of their minds on pep pills.'

'Gee, when you put it like that, how can I resist?' She sighs. 'We _do_ have money, you know. We are fully funded by the Margaret and Bern Chenowith Foundation for the Terminally Fucked-Up.'

'Yeah, but pretending that you don't have money when you actually _do_ is half the fun.'

'That makes no sense whatsoever.'

'Ah, that's because you don't have artistic genius on your side. You see things in two dimensions.'

She waves her hand. 'Whatever. Fine. We'll try hitching, but if things don't work out quickly, or if, y'know, we get stranded in the middle of a fucking _desert_ , we find another way. Deal?'

'Sure thing.'

The sun dips below the horizon, leaving only the faintest traces of its existence.

She fishes out another couple of beers, and hands one over to Billy. The two of them lapse into contemplative silence. She makes plans for Perth, works out places and dates in her head. There's some photography exhibition on in ten days' time. There has to be some way to convince Billy to go see it by himself. To spend some time doing other things by himself. To let her go and do something by herself, or with Connor. Just for a day or two.

She's not ditching him. She doesn't need to feel guilty. She doesn't.

She takes another swallow of beer, and lies down. Stares up at the dim evening stars, so different here, and wonders what the hell she should do.

'Hey. Bren.'

She turns her head to look at him.

'I've got sand in my fucking pants. I'm starting to think that this whole lying-on-the-beach-in-my-clothes thing isn't such a great idea. Can you pass me my towel?'

He grins, that mischievous ten-year-old grin that she has such trouble resisting, and she returns it with a watery, painful smile. And cancels her half-formed plans.

 


End file.
